


When I'm 54

by starbrigid



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Insecurity, M/M, Manchester United, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 10:38:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9890831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbrigid/pseuds/starbrigid
Summary: Manchester United lose to Hull City on Jose's birthday. Jose is less than pleased, but Zlatan wants to celebrate nonetheless.





	

            "So we didn't lose, eh? 1-1?"

            For some unfathomable reason, Zlatan was getting into Jose's towncar with him. Jose would have told Zlatan exactly what he thought of his presumption if the entire squad hadn't been getting into their own rides in the parking lot nearby. Jose couldn't let himself be undermined in front of them, had to act like this was all his idea, everything according to plan.

            So he put on a good face, like he had in front of all the boys when Zlatan saw Jose's new haircut and burst out laughing at the top of his lungs. "Now you look like an old man," Zlatan had barked out, in Italian he'd seen Darmian leap to translate, only to see Pogba already doing the job for him, hanging on every word of Zlatan's as if it were gospel, the same way he always did. Jose had been forced to smile, because that was what Jose did these days, put on a good face. He'd put on that face today, behaving himself on the bench, putting on a hollow grin at the ugly cake with his face on it that the staff had presented him on the coach back. He'd even sent Matilde a picture of him with the cake to make her think everything was good. Rui ought to have known better than that, damn him, and damn the knowing look he was giving Jose and Zlatan as they disappeared into the backseat together.

            All his thoughts jumbled together, incoherent rage stifled beneath the new content Mourinho, who of course didn't mind that his team had put in a shameful, limp performance on his birthday and humiliated him. After all, they'd gone through anyway and were headed to Wembley, Wembley, never mind the unbeaten streak thrown away this nonchalantly, with none perhaps so nonchalant at it as the man who'd forced his way in beside him.

            "I watched your interview," Zlatan informed him in Italian, glancing up towards the driver and the thick black barrier before turning that brilliant, forcibly charming grin back on Jose. "It's good to see you're still coming up with new ways to tell the world to fuck off. At- ah, what is it? 54? We'll drink to it at the Lowry."

            "Do I seem in a mood for socializing tonight to you?" Jose snapped, not wanting to let Zlatan get a rise out of him, but it was impossible with that big lanky body crowding the backseat.

            "Oh, we don't have to go to the hotel bar. We can have the drink in your room, then," Zlatan replied, and his smile only widened at the look Jose gave him, a smile that said Jose wouldn't be rid of him that easily. "We'll celebrate your birthday in style."

            "It's very late," Jose attempted, leveling Zlatan with so heavy a glare he ought to have felt the threat in it, not the least given how he'd played earlier. Maybe he felt sheltered in how indifferent everyone else had been, but that was no excuse, not for Zlatan. Zlatan was supposed to be the one he could always rely on, whatever else happened.

            "So it is," Zlatan agreed. "I'll have to spend the night at the Lowry."

            "Zlatan," Jose said quickly, the warning audible in his voice. That was the last thing he needed, after he'd worked so hard for so long to keep his distance when it came to that. "You'll get a taxi in the lobby when we arrive and go home to your mansion."

            Zlatan didn't look frustrated at all by that, maybe because he still seemed supremely confident in getting his way. "Oh, Jose," he said, stretching back across the seat, "You don't really want to be alone right now." He yawned as he stretched, like some massive lion reclining over its felled prey, pulling his arms back over his head. The motion made his United top and the shirt beneath ride up, showing off a sliver of his hipbones, paler than he'd been anywhere on him in Italy.

            Jose was too tired to keep himself from staring. Maybe Zlatan would have given up by now on resuming what they'd had in Milan, if Jose could just have kept himself from staring at Zlatan everyday, everywhere, constantly, but he hadn't managed it yet. Zlatan was- Zlatan.

            "Have I not been perfectly clear," Jose snapped, trying to make his voice icy.

            "Very," Zlatan agreed equably. "At first, you said you didn't want to show me favoritism when I was first arriving to the squad. Then, when I wasn't scoring, you were too disgusted by me to look at me, much less anything else. Then you were too busy with flying to Portugal all the time, and then there was the Christmas fixture congestion. What's your excuse now?"

            "Why are you so persistent?" Jose countered, and felt his blood boiling further as the towncar pulled up and Zlatan followed him in, as casually as if he lived there too. "Don't you have any self-respect?" he hissed as they got into the elevator, Zlatan ducking to get himself under the gilded doors. At least the back entrance had let them avoid any autographs or selfies. All of Jose's good behavior these days would be for nothing if he punched a tourist in the mouth.

            Zlatan stepped close to Jose as the doors closed, looming over him effortlessly, radiating heat in the small space. It was a dangerously good feeling, after the frozen chill outside, along with the seductive relief of Zlatan's sheer familiarity. Except Zlatan was different now too, more broad and muscular, with facial hair and long hair tied back, more lines on that insufferable face, and more confidence he carried himself with along with more years- nowhere near as different as Jose himself, though, that was for sure.

            "I am pathetic, then," Zlatan laughed, licking his lips. Jose stared at his mouth, eyes eating up every inch of Zlatan, every flick of that long pink tongue, the most talented one Jose had ever felt- "Pathetic," Zlatan repeated, a smirk spreading across his face, and Jose knew he must be giving what the English called 'mixed messages.' "Yes, I am pathetic. Shameful. You must yell at me for this."

            The elevator slid open on Jose's floor, and Jose shoved Zlatan out of the way to stalk out past him. No gawping neighbors, so Jose barely lowered his voice to say, "Your performance today, that was shameful. You should be groveling for forgiveness for that."

            Zlatan found the light and flicked the switch for him as they headed in, Jose instinctively going for the bar before considering the message that would give Zlatan. Zlatan had been at Jose's hotel before, though never just the two of them, so it was easy for Zlatan to find Jose's bedroom and perch himself on the bed's edge, still smirking. "Oh, come on. We were already through."

            "It was closer than it should have been," Jose growled, fighting the urge to pace, to do- he didn't know what, at the sight of Zlatan lounging back across Jose's bed, leaning back on his elbows.

            "And we got through," Zlatan shrugged, then snickered. "Oh, I'm sorry, is it losing the unbeaten record? Were we aiming to unseat Zidane with number 41? Or is it that we didn't give poor Jose a win on his birthday?"

            Jose slapped Zlatan across the face. That just made Zlatan laugh, and when Jose lifted his hand again to backhand him, Zlatan took hold of his wrist and pulled it to his face instead by himself. He felt Zlatan's trimmed beard, the rough stubble around it, against his palm, along with the slick warmth of Zlatan's mouth as Zlatan kissed his hand. Jose was suddenly, painfully aware of how much more brittle the skin on his hands was, thinner, more wrinkled- an old man's hand. Tenderness felt like mockery to those hands.

            "Let go of me," Jose hissed, and Zlatan's big dark brown eyes were an imponderable weight on him at that moment, making Jose feel he could jump out of his own skin at any second.

            "Jose," Zlatan almost groaned, nuzzling his face against Jose's palm. He had to feel the texture of the skin now. "I'm sorry. Just let me make you feel good." It was the same offer he'd been making since he'd arrived in Manchester, sometimes in looks and touches, sometimes in words- let's spend some time together, let me help you, let me ease your strain, take care of all this stress you have, I know you-

            It was so incessant Jose could really have thought Zlatan determined to get Jose back at any cost. That would have been quite a prospect, given how murderously single-minded Zlatan got when he set his mind to something. That was, if the Jose that Zlatan wanted hadn't really been the Jose he had known before, the Jose from Inter, the Jose who didn't exist anymore.

            "It is your birthday," Zlatan reasoned, and let Jose's hand go. Jose immediately suspected he was up to no good with it. Sure enough, he was pulling the band out of his hair and letting it loose over his shoulders. The sight made up for the feebleness of his reasoning.

            Now it wasn't even a matter of his gaze, it was his hands struggling to keep themselves away from Zlatan. Unlike Jose's hair, Zlatan's mane was as thick and dark as it had ever been then- more so, really, better, since the reason Zlatan wore it up now, which Jose hated, was because it was even longer than before, brushing his shoulders. Jose's fingers remembered grabbing that hair, using it to pull Zlatan into kisses, to push Zlatan's head down lower on his cock, or pulling it to yank Zlatan's head back and bite his neck and make him gasp and squeal as Jose fucked him from behind-

            "Jose," Zlatan said intently, sending Jose's eyes shooting back to his. "I don't understand you. You never used to hold back, from anything. But now- you know that I would just let it go. If it was just that I'd gotten too old-"

            "You have gotten old," Jose said. "Old and wrinkled and slow. Withered. You're an old man now. Do you really think that's attractive? You're a shadow of what you used to be."

            Zlatan didn't seem to like that, of course he didn't. His lip twisted up, face changing. "Fine," he snapped, and ran a hand through his hair shakily. "Tell me you don't want me, and I'll give up. I'll be your player and nothing more. If you can tell me that's what you really want."

            "I-" Jose began. His mouth had gone dry. It was like trying to force the sounds out around sandpaper. "I don't."

            Zlatan's dark eyes flashed in fury. He reacted the only way Zlatan would, pulling off his sweatshirt and undershirt to bare his torso. Yes, his skin was paler from this English winter than Jose had ever seen it, but his body hadn't aged at all, every muscle perfectly wrought, only a handful more tattoos snaking their way over the ridges of his abs and the curves of his biceps. Watching him move, watching the working of those muscles beneath Zlatan's tattoos, made Jose's breath catch in his throat. God, he was a magnificent beast.

            "I don't believe you," Zlatan declared, and Jose laughed.

            "What, you ask me to tell you, and when I do, you won't listen? Older but no smarter," Jose goaded him, stepping closer. His hands had gone to fists in his pockets.

            "Say it again," Zlatan said, and reached down for the tracksuit bottoms. The words to tell Zlatan to stop died on Jose's lips. Zlatan kicked off his sneakers along with his trousers, revealing the impossibly long expanse of his powerful legs between the black cotton of his black socks and black briefs. Just those thighs and the memory of what they could do was enough to make Jose break into a sweat.

            Zlatan still shaved his legs, the vain fool, like so many footballers did these days, and it made the rippling cords of those thigh muscles and quadriceps all the more obvious, like a carved statue under velvet skin. Jose wondered if Zlatan still shaved absolutely everywhere. He had to wait to find out until Zlatan pulled off his socks first, hair falling in his eyes as he bent over. The stretched, damp black fabric of his briefs made it more than obvious how hard Zlatan had gotten. The man Jose had been in Milan would have ripped them off that monster of a cock and put his hands all over Zlatan, but Jose wasn't that man anymore.

            "Say you don't want me," Zlatan said defiantly, and pinned his gaze to Jose's as he reached down for his briefs. Jose was thankful for the long puffy coat he still had on, hiding his own reaction, even if Zlatan couldn't miss him looking. When Jose didn't answer, Zlatan just chuckled, and pulled his briefs off, kicking them away. His cock sprung free, dark red with all the blood gone to it, dripping wet with pre-come. "Oh, fine, then. Just look. You like that these days, don't you?"

            Standing above Zlatan like this, Zlatan's cock looked even more obscenely big and heavy than Jose remembered, near as thick as one of Jose's fists. Zlatan palmed it slowly, keeping their eyes locked. "All the time watching me, like you want to torture me," he groaned, eyes gone bitter, mutinous. The skin above his cock was indeed bare, and looked as silken as the rest of him, even the flushed pink weight of his balls, shaved smooth too, every inch of him prepared to be touched.

            "Sometimes I think you do it on purpose," Zlatan continued conversationally, stroking his own cock. "If it's some kind of mind fuck you're pulling on me. Your famous mind games. Some kind of fucked up motivational technique. Oh, you won't touch me, not with your body, but you'll fuck me with your eyes, like you're trying to drive me insane." He shifted his hips up and back to show himself off better, caught up now in a voluptuous haze of excitement and resentment.

            "I don't know what your game is," Zlatan complained. "If you have some kind of tally in your head. How many goals I need to score before you give me what I want. But what's the benchmark? I thought 20, but I've hit that already, and nothing." He let his fingers slip down lower, and Jose bit his lip so hard he was tasting blood. Zlatan made sure Jose was watching good and closely before he continued.

            He reached down with both hands to pull the cheeks of his ass apart and display his hole for Jose to see. Jose could clearly make out the small pink rim of him, watch Zlatan let one of his fingertips circle the puckered flesh. Jose was so hard it physically hurt, like a blow to the gut. "So what will it take?" Zlatan mused, tracing the rim while keeping the cheeks held open with his other hand, letting Jose watch him play with his hole while his huge hard cock dripped pre-come across his thick broad thighs. "What the fuck will it take to get your cock inside me?"

            Suddenly, a conversation Jose had held once with Rui sprang right to his mind, all the way back in October or November, a conversation he'd tried hard to forget.

            Rui had lived through Jose's affair with Zlatan in Milan, and had been grimly tolerant of it without ever seeming to actually approve. So it had been a mortifying shock when, after suffering the indignity of Rui witnessing one of Zlatan's not-so-subtle overtures towards him, he'd suffered the further indignity of Rui encouraging him to take Zlatan up on his offer. "You could use it right now," Rui had said. "You're wound so tight, it's like you could explode at any moment. It always did seem to help you, when you exploded on him."

            Jose had demurred, trying to feign disinterest, but Rui knew him far too well for that. When Jose had tried to laugh it off, joking that he wasn't man enough for Zlatan anymore, Rui had taken him seriously. "Is that it? Is that what you think now?" he'd demanded. "I know you haven't been the same since Chelsea. You can try and act like it hasn't changed things. Like it hasn't changed you. But it did. It broke your confidence. You still don't have it back, not really. You're scared you never will. So you put on a front, but Zlatan knows you-"

            One of Zlatan's thick, clever fingers had pushed inside himself, slick and shiny from Zlatan sucking on it, pulling his right hand to his mouth and licking at it. He let out a low sigh as the finger disappeared into him, squirming as he moved to get the best angle. He seemed determined Jose be able to watch properly the whole time. "Jose," he said deliberately, as if to make absolutely fucking sure, as if Jose's attention could have been on anything other than the 6-5" Swede fingering himself open in Jose's bed.

            "Jose, do you remember the game after we'd already won the title," Zlatan panted, working the finger all the way in and beginning to twist it around, wrist flexing powerfully. "I drank too much the night before, for once in my life. And you were so furious." He added another finger without breaking the rhythm. "In the game, I wanted to come off, but you wouldn't let me. You took off everyone but me, even the keeper, just to fuck with me. Do you remember?"

            Slowly, he began to thrust his fingers in and out, hips tilted out, lifted a bit in the air so Jose could see every bit of his hole swallowing up the digits each time, flexing around them tightly. "And that night, you tied me to a bed and fingered me forever, for hours, and you wouldn't stop, wouldn't give me your cock no matter how I begged for it, wouldn't even touch my cock or let me come, because- I don't know, you're a crazy motherfucker- Jose," Zlatan gasped, as he worked a third in beside the others, then pumped them in together, hard.

            "You need to stop living in the past," Jose said, more angry than he had any reason to be.

            Zlatan stared back up at him, and Jose realized with a jolt that he'd gone all the way over to the bed, edged closer without even meaning to, and now he was standing right over Zlatan. "Then give me something to remember," Zlatan said softly, and pulled his fingers out of himself. He'd been working them in vigorously, enough that the skin around was already flushed pink, but his hole still only hung open a bit. He must not have been fucked for a long time. Jose could examine for himself, as Zlatan used both hands to spread his cheeks along with his thighs, presenting himself completely.

            It shocked him anew, how utterly shameless Zlatan was, so big and powerful but so ready to show himself off, so ready to slut himself out and beg for cock. It was all too much, overwhelming, and it left Jose more frozen than ever, until-

            "Or do I have to find someone else to fuck me?"

            "Someone else? Did you have someone in mind?" Jose hissed. "You always said you would fuck anyone you wanted, but I was the only one you would let have you, instead of the other way around. Will you just spread your legs for anyone now?"

            Zlatan shrugged, letting his hands drop as he yawned, stretching expansively, body arching sumptuously. "If you're not man enough to give it to me anymore."

            After holding back for half a year, everything happened in an instant. Jose struck Zlatan in the face, hand half coiled into a fist, and Zlatan just laughed and used Jose's momentum to pull him down on top of him, puffy coat and all. His hands went under the coat, feeling between Jose's legs, and he let out a triumphant snarl at what he found there. Then he was grappling to get the coat off, tugging at the snaps and zippers all at once, laughing while Jose cursed him in Portuguese.

            Jose yanked the coat off himself in annoyance, hissing, "Of course I am- man enough. I'm more than enough for you, and- ah," he broke off, gasping as Zlatan's big hands returned to his cock again, squeezing at it roughly through the fabric.

            "I can see that," Zlatan laughed, licking his lips, and Jose tried to push him backwards, caught up in all that bare skin and glorious strength writhing underneath him.

            "Don't you know who I am?" Jose demanded breathlessly, and swatted Zlatan's hands away when Zlatan tried to get at Jose's cock. He pulled it out himself, yanking his pants and boxers down to let out his painful hardness. He could see the longing on Zlatan's face flare up at the sight, see how it shook him.

            "Yes," Zlatan whispered. "You're Jose Mourinho."

            Zlatan was tighter than Jose could have imagined as he shoved in, clenched hot and tight around the tip of Jose's cock. Jose braced himself against Zlatan's chest as he worked himself in painstakingly, inch by inch, slick only with spit, watching the sensation register in Zlatan's beautiful dark eyes. Zlatan's hands were all over him, grappling to try and undress him, only now as Jose forced his way inside him. They moaned together when Jose pushed the last way in and fully sheathed himself inside, Zlatan's hands grabbing hard at his arms to steady them both.

            "You're Jose Mourinho," Zlatan said, "There's no one like you," and kissed him.

            Zlatan's mouth was pure sin, as quick and devilish as ever, all tongue and teeth together as he strained up for Jose's mouth. Jose kissing him back seemed to spur him on, tongue sliding along warm and twisting against Zlatan's, making Zlatan's hips buck up under Jose's weight, demanding more of everything. They had to break off the kiss right away, though, despite Zlatan's protests, for Zlatan to peel Jose's shirt and sweatshirt up off over his head. Then Jose returned to kissing Zlatan, wanting more of the taste of him, of the sharp catch of those teeth, as Zlatan's hands grasped at Jose's hips, seemingly undecided whether to pull off the rest of Jose's clothes, or pull Jose into another rough thrust.

            But the cloth was a maddening impediment between them, so Jose did pull out to slide his trousers and boxers all the way off, no longer thinking of how he looked naked now that he'd felt Zlatan's body clenching around his cock. He hurried to pull everything off, yanking to get his shoes off with the rest, to get that feeling back as quickly as he could, with Zlatan leaning up to kiss and bite demandingly at his chin and throat as if drunk.

            The moment Jose was fully naked, he rounded on Zlatan and thrust his cock all the way back in, listening for the slap of balls against flesh, and for the low, guttural moan of Jose's name it wrenched out of Zlatan's pretty flushed red mouth.

            "Say my name," Jose gasped, and felt Zlatan's hands go to his ass, grabbing it and trying to yank Jose's hips into a quicker motion. Jose let him, jerking his hips down like Zlatan wanted, and was rewarded with the sight of Zlatan's eyes nearly rolling back in his head, Zlatan's hot breath panting against his face as Zlatan gasped in satisfaction.

            "Jose," Zlatan moaned out, squeezing his ass hard around Jose's cock as his thighs wrapped up around Jose's body, coiling around him like a snake.

            "All of it," Jose demanded, his own voice a breathless mess, and gave Zlatan a brief, forceful kiss before awaiting the reply. Each time he snapped his hips in, Zlatan pressed himself up in response, like he would be begging for more if he didn't have to say Jose's name.

            "Jose Mourinho," Zlatan said, and smiled at that, widely, baring his teeth. Jose bit Zlatan's bottom lip, shoving in roughly before rolling his hips testingly, and Zlatan shuddered in response, hips bucking up so violently it lifted them both off the bed for a moment. "Jose. Jose Mourinho, Jose Mourinho."

            "And who am I?" Jose demanded, thrusting as deep and as hard as he could. He could feel the sweat dripping down his face, over his whole body, but he was speeding up regardless, a man possessed. Zlatan's nails raked over his ass, stinging, as Zlatan's body slapped up against his and Zlatan kept trying to pull Jose back into him faster.

            "You're the best," Zlatan gasped. "The best manager in the world. My manager. The Manchester United manager."

            "Yes," Jose hissed, letting the word draw out, overwhelmed by the strength of Zlatan's unbelievable body beneath his, the incredible heat it generated, the heat of the friction of their bodies slamming together. He bit again and again at Zlatan's lips as he thrust in, wanting to turn them redder and redder. Zlatan's legs would contract, muscles in his thighs and calves yanking Jose back down each time he slid out, clenching bruisingly around him, holding him just as tight as the brilliant burning vise of his hole did around Jose's cock. Whenever he'd fucked Zlatan, it had almost always felt like Zlatan could have killed him if he wanted, just wrapped around him and squeezed the life out of him, and that still felt the same even if Jose wasn't what he had been, Zlatan just as wild beneath him, still saying Jose's name between short, cutting kisses.

            It was too good, too much, too all-consuming, so unlike the nightmarish slog of everyday existence, of draws and losses, that it had Jose out of his mind, on the brink of coming without even having had his fill. He could feel the pressure building behind his balls, and he held it back, biting down even harder on Zlatan's abused, swollen lower lip to center himself. That was just one impulse, though, set against the sensation of Zlatan's nails on his skin, Zlatan's ass around his cock, Zlatan's legs around his waist, Zlatan's chest heaving under his hands- the nipples were sliding beneath Jose's nails, and the noises Zlatan made when Jose scratched at them were beyond obscene-

            Jose reached down and wrapped his right hand around Zlatan's cock, desperate not to embarrass himself. Far from being past it, Zlatan had him like a teenager again, struggling to prolong the most exquisite thing he had felt at Manchester United. It was a struggle to even fit his whole hand around the thickness of Zlatan's length, and Zlatan rubbed himself against Jose's palm with utter abandon, pushing their bodies together even faster. "Jose," Zlatan practically wailed, drawing Jose's name out long and wrought, and arched his whole body up in some nameless plea. "Jose, Jose, Jose."

            Jose bit back Zlatan's name, slamming into Zlatan so hard he saw stars, vision going blurry. Zlatan's cock was dripping velvet in his hand, Zlatan's body the same around him, the same as Zlatan's mouth, his voice, everything-

            His orgasm hit him like a wave all at once, and he was screaming out Zlatan's name despite himself as he came inside Zlatan, pumping Zlatan full of his seed. Zlatan came at that feeling, like he always had- he'd seemed to love nothing on Earth more than having Jose's come inside him- arching up again and again so violently it nearly bucked Jose off him, still inhumanly strong. Jose just held on, drowning in the feeling of Zlatan's body, milking every last bit of come out from his cock, Zlatan's come spattering his palm, Zlatan hot and trembling under him. When he collapsed at last atop Zlatan, Zlatan's arms came up around his back and wrapped around his neck, pulling Jose close to stay inside him.

            "Happy birthday, Jose," Zlatan managed, twisting so their faces were close together, and smiled.

            So many things sprang to Jose's tongue, rebukes about the game, about having other people fuck him, about whether Jose was man enough for him now, but for the moment, they all felt answered, in Zlatan's glorious well-fucked body wrapped around him. He bit his lip and said nothing, staring at Zlatan's sweaty face, and finally just elected to push Zlatan's hair out of his eyes. Somehow that turned into sliding his fingers through the long, wavy strands, then stroking it. Zlatan made no move to stop him, his tired smile widening.

            "Was it a terrible birthday?" Zlatan asked, shifting so they were both on their sides, which sent Jose's limp cock shifting inside him. God, Zlatan was delicious, every inch of him, inside and out- maddening, but an absolute dream.

            Jose just gave him a look, which made Zlatan chuckle. "Alright, alright. I know. Any day you lose is a terrible day."

            "54," Jose said softly, marveling, and Zlatan frowned.

            "Much younger for a manager," he offered, "Than 35, for a player."

            "Yes," Jose groaned. "35, you've grown so old and hideous. It's a miracle I can stand to look at you, much less touch you."

            Zlatan laughed aloud at that, only giving Jose a displeased look when Jose briefly stopped stroking his hair. "So it's back to nothing for me, then? What, will it be another 20 goals before I get your cock again?"

            "Do you have another 20 in you?" Jose countered, trying not to smile. That was one of the worst things about Zlatan, how impossible he made it to be miserable.

            Zlatan snorted. "Hmm," he considered. "Well, you're trying to extend me another year, and you never rest me, even if I ask you to, so..."

            "I'll rest you against Wigan," Jose said, and Zlatan grinned, tracing his fingers over Jose's shoulders.

            "Oh," he said. "Will I be in no fit state to play?"

            Jose glowered at him. "No. Rooney needs trotting out. Rashford needs time too. You'll save your goals for Hull. I'll expect you to give me some against them this time."

            Despite the news he'd miss a game, Zlatan was glowing. He had to have wanted this more badly than Jose had known. "So you're not embarrassed against your friend Silva again," Zlatan needled, and Jose shook his head.

            "Don't think getting in my bed means I'll be any easier on you," Jose warned, and that made Zlatan lean in and kiss him. He'd always taken well to threats. It was a longer, slower kiss, but still hot and open-mouthed, languid and liquid and sweet enough to make Jose feel stupid things about Zlatan, things he refused to name, even to himself.

            "Go ahead," Zlatan said against Jose's mouth. "Be as horrible as you like. As long as I get in your bed again."

            Jose tugged on Zlatan's hair, hard, just because he could, just to hear him squeal a bit. It was dangerous, letting himself feel this good on a night he'd lost to Hull fucking City, but there it was, deserved or not. His body felt incredible, bone-tired but the good kind of tired, well and thoroughly sated. "If you're looking for reassurance, Zlatan, you're not getting any."

            Zlatan sighed. "Of course not. I shouldn't expect anything less." The corner of his lower lip- still swollen up and stained a beautiful crimson from the scraping of Jose's teeth- twisted up. "I know how you are. But then, you know how I am."

            "Yes, yes," Jose said dismissively. "We all know how pushy you can be. We have already discussed your many negative qualities tonight."

            "No," Zlatan said. "How obliging I can be. Remember some of the things we did. So many things I let you do to me. Things I've never let anyone else do, even Gerard-" He stopped and laughed at the sour look the name put on Jose's face. "Ah, Jose, I'm sure you remember."

            "You did fuck Pique in Barcelona," Jose snapped, mood less buoyant at that. He'd as good as known already, but that didn't make hearing it from Zlatan's mouth any nicer.

            "Nothing like me and you, though," Zlatan wheedled, and ran his hands over Jose's short hair. "Please tell me this will grow back quickly."

            "Anyone since Pique," Jose asked. "To do it to you, that is, not the other way around."

            "Not even with Gerard," Zlatan said. "You're the only man I respect enough to let fuck me." He kissed the side of Jose's mouth sweetly. "You, I'll let you do anything to me. Whatever you want. Just don't shut me out."

            Jose just nodded tightly. He didn't think he could, even if he wanted. Silently, he began to stroke Zlatan's hair again.

**Author's Note:**

> References:
> 
> The game in question:
> 
> http://www.bbc.com/sport/football/38672990
> 
>  
> 
> Jose's cake:
> 
> http://i2.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/incoming/article12514636.ece/ALTERNATES/s615b/mourinhobirthday.jpg
> 
>  
> 
> Jose's unfortunate haircut:
> 
> http://www.telegraph.co.uk/football/2017/01/25/manchester-united-manager-jose-mourinho-unveils-bold-new-war/
> 
>  
> 
> The incident at Inter Milan where Zlatan wanted to be substituted:
> 
> https://www.theguardian.com/football/blog/2009/may/18/serie-a-inter-jose-mourinho
> 
>  
> 
> The famous picture of Zlatan and Gerard Pique together:
> 
> https://s2.yimg.com/bt/api/res/1.2/eVoJPH.R4VhBoXfyivvpIg--/YXBwaWQ9eW5ld3NfbGVnbztxPTg1O3c9NjMw/http://l.yimg.com/os/publish-images/sports/2015-11-24/32cc98b0-92c5-11e5-831a-e326eff79483_pique.jpg


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